


Dark Interval

by ethanlefeb



Category: Half-Life
Genre: Alternate Universe, Beta Storyline, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Plot, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:27:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23383033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ethanlefeb/pseuds/ethanlefeb
Summary: Subject: Gordon Freeman, Age 27, MaleStatus: UncooperativeAssignment: Temporal relocation in progress
Comments: 4
Kudos: 47





	1. Hyperborea

**Author's Note:**

> Post-Epistle 3, slightly? The idea I was going with was that G-Man chose to place Gordon inside of an alternate timeline to keep him 'busy' while he tries to mold Alyx into an ideal 'employee', and that alternate timeline happens to be beta Half-Life 2 because of COURSE it is!
> 
> There will be no spoilers present for Half-Life: Alyx, by the way.

When Gordon is placed in stasis, he is simultaneously aware of everything, and aware of _nothing_.

He can feel the unsteady rhythm of his own breathing within the cold, suffocating darkness, but he can't feel the sensation of his fingers digging into his palm when he clenches his fist. He can feel every second that passes, but it feels as if a second in here equals a century outside. When he attempts to open his mouth, to say something to try and shake away the deafening silence, the only thing that comes out is his own warm, stilted breath.

Really, the only thing he could reasonably expect to accomplish in a state like this was _think_. Think about what had lead him to being thrust into this cage once again. The death of Eli Vance, and their trip to the Borealis. The husk of Breen, the confrontation with Dr. Mossman, and their suicidal plan to strike the Combine on their turf.  
The absolutely staggering truth of their size in the scale of it all, and the realization that it was never going to be that easy soon after. Alyx offered a chance to set things right at a cost, her deeply apologetic look at Gordon, full of things she wants to say but can't bring herself to, before she follows _him_ through that door, and leaves Gordon to die.

He can't blame her. Whereas Gordon never had a stake in choosing whether or not to accept his offer beyond the (in his eyes) selfish desire to continue living, he offered Alyx a chance at liberating the enslaved world she was born into. So what if she was a pawn for use in some four-dimensional game of chess? So what if she died as a result? This Earth was her home.

Gordon was shuffled into it to serve some 'higher purpose'. Alyx was _born_ into it.

Gordon closes his eyes, though it matters little in the blinding darkness of this void. It's far too easy to fall into a trance in a state like this, without feeling, without sound, without time. After the Black Mesa Incident, Gordon could feel the twenty years, and yet... he found himself on that train practically seconds after stepping out of that tram and into that portal. Hardly enough time to get enough sleep to make up for all that lost time, but he wanted to get as much as he _could_.

When he opens his eyes, he's staring at the waves of the sea lapping against the hull of the fishing vessel, his hands, currently covered by massive, bulky yellow rubber work gloves, leaning into the railing with a loose grip. It takes a moment for Gordon to shake free the fatigue of his awakening from stasis, and when he eventually manages to do it, it's replaced with the startling, frigid discomfort of confusion. As he lifts his head to look at the deck, he's able to recognize the general layout and design of the ship, but peering down at the waves below is enough proof for him to know something was different about the _Borealis_ he was aboard.  
Eyes furrowed behind his glasses, Gordon turns from the railing. It was almost tranquil, in a way, though it looked as if hours of hard backbreaking work happened on deck. And truthfully, Gordon wouldn't have looked too out of place with the fishermen onboard. Evidently, he had deemed it necessary to swap out his Hazardous Environments Suit for something a little more industrial. They hardly provided any relief from the chill of the cold sea air, though. Cheap, thin rubber suits, colored a striking blood orange.

Exactly the sort of thing the Combine would manufacture to get the job done for its few remaining naval workers.

Looking around at his immediate surroundings, there wasn't much to offer an explanation for where he was, or his sudden wardrobe change. There was a door on either end of the long deck, both of which looked as if they were locked tight. Along the wall directly in front of him, he could see barrels full of _fuel_ or _bait_ or _water_ or some other sort of supply, but no clear signs of life. Right next to the closest line of them, however, was the one open door he could see on this deck. Slightly ajar, fluorescent light flooding out from the open gap.  
Gordon realizes his throat feels dry, and involuntarily swallows as an uneasy, uncertain dread fills him. He felt naked without his hazard suit on, and it was a discomfort that was only amplified by his lack of a decent arsenal, but the only thing he was accomplishing by standing out here, in the cold, was a very real possibility of getting frostbite.

He only hears the sound of aerial bombardment when he gets inside and closes the door behind him, and the absolute _uncertainty_ as to what the hell it was only _adds_ to the dread building in the pit of his stomach.   
And it's... not helping that the first thing he sees upon getting indoors was a trio of corpses slumped against the wall. All of them wearing the same fisherman uniform as he was, and now that he could see it on someone else, he could spot the telltale Combine insignia stamped on their back, just under their necks.

Of particular interest to him, however, was the worn ice pick clutched desperately in the closest corpse's hand. It wasn't a crowbar, but ANYTHING he could get a solid swing in with made him feel infinitely better about confronting whatever monsters killed these men.  
He crouches down infront of the corpse, taking care not to break anything as he peels the ice pick out from his grip, before pushing himself back up to his feet. And then...

_"Hold it, keep those hands where I can see 'em, kid! **You** were the spy, weren't you? **You** told 'em we were here, didn't you?"_

  
  



	2. Phase Transition

"... You gonna speak, or do I hafta let _buckshot_ do the talking instead?"

The sight of the older man pointing a shotgun at him is enough to stun Gordon into silence, but with his hands raised and his expression one of genuine confusion, the fisherman seems to take a moment to carefully observe Gordon, as if watching his features for any shift in his composure that would betray a guilty conscience underneath his silence. Whatever had happened aboard the Borealis, it was clear this man had seen most of it. Too much, even. Though his tone conveyed anger and frustration, his eyes had a distinctly sad quality to them.   
Whatever had happened here, it was clear it wasn't good.

Simply looking innocent wasn't going to be enough to shake whatever suspicions this man had, however. Swallowing more saliva in a vain attempt to keep his throat from drying up more than it already had, Gordon opened his mouth, and spoke for the first time in god knows how long.  
"I'm not a spy. I _promise_ , I... just boarded."

It was far from a stable justification, admittedly, but... it wasn't technically lying. Worst case scenario, he supposes he might just assume he's a stowaway, trying to escape from one slice of Combine-controlled land to the next in a desperate hope for a slightly better life. As the fisherman considers Gordon's justification, he finds his gaze wandering from the older man's face down to the faces of the dead workers littering the floor. Precision shots ended the lives of these men, a single shot to the chest, and a second shot through the head. It wasn't much of a stretch to assume the work of transhumans, and _that_ meant Combine.   
If he had to guess, he'd assume he found himself warped to a part of the world where the Lambda Resistance hadn't managed to make much headway. Europe was fighting back, but whose to say that same level of resistance was happening across the globe?

"... Bad timin', son. I _don't know if you noticed_ , but this ship is gettin' _invaded_. Headhumpers throughout the bottom decks, soldiers through the top."

Through modified torpedos, it wasn't hard for the Combine to sandwich Resistance members between the threat of zombification, and immediate termination. And judging from the man's rude introduction earlier, it's safe to assume this ship either housed members of the Resistance, or was suspected of housing them. Either way, it was a bad place to find yourself empty-handed.  
Gordon simply offered a shrug, his hands remaining raised as he refocused his attention on the fisherman.

"... gotta plan, though. We funnel supplies back to base through the sub. Don't suppose you know how to work a crane, do you? Gotta get the thing in the moon pool, first things first... Name's Odell. _Owen_ Odell. Dunno if I can trust you, but I gotta be honest? Doubt I got much of a choice if I wanna live through this. You got a name, kid?"

Odell was, at least, courteous enough to lower the barrel of his shotgun to point at the floor instead of Gordon's chest. He, in turn, gave a short nod of the head as one of his hands lowered to hang by his sides once more. The other raised to scratch at the back of his head, furrowing his eyebrows. "Gordon Freeman," was all he had to say, and just as he expected, Odell seemed rather surprised by the answer. Not one to hang on it for too long, however, the man shakes his head and turns, motioning for him to follow.

"... Sure, _Gordon_. We're not far from the hold. Few of us are holed up in the cafeteria, fightin' off as much of those bastards as we can, but none of us are willin' to go down there until we know we've got a straight shot to the sub. We've got families. Lombardi's got a wife. Lil' ol' lady, bad hip. Relies on him makin' enough money to keep her medicated as well as she can be in this hellhole. Wolpaw's a Conscript medic. Medic's are important, y'know? Keeps 'em alive. Got important military know-how to keep the Resistance strong, too! Can't be sendin' them to their death in the vain hope we get off this boat."

The implication was clear. _These men were important, you are not._ Not yet, in any case.   
If he hadn't gotten used to it by this point, Gordon would have found himself annoyed by the implication, but as it is, it feels like exactly what he'd come to expect.

Odell leads him to a staircase, the lights leading downward flickering on and off. _Off_ more than _on_. He turns and gives Gordon a strange look, a mix between pity and indifference, before turning back around to open a red emergency supply locker mounted on the wall beside the staircase. When he finally turns back, he's doing it with a small handful of extra supplies. A small flashlight, which he takes the time to affix to one of the pockets on the front of Gordon's overalls, and a flare gun in the other hand, along with a small handful of flares.

"Good impromptu weapons. Headhumpers gotta tear open the victim's gut to let 'em eat, y'know? No mouth, so... Pop 'em in the gut, and you cook 'em from the inside. Just try not to worry about the screamin'. Follow the red line on the wall, and it'll lead you to the cargo hold. Just block off any zombies from gettin' in the way, get the sub in the moon pool, and get back here, got it? I'm only waitin' an hour for you to get back before I write you off as bein' Bullsquid food, so don't dawdle!"

Odell gives Gordon a (he assumes) reassuring pat on the back, before jerking his head to the side. With little room for objecting, Gordon gives an exhale of breath as he flicks the flare gun open, and pops a flare inside, switching the flashlight on as he slowly descends deeper into the depths of the ship.


	3. Absolute Zero

When Odell warned him of the headcrabs prowling about the underbelly of the ship, he hadn't warned him of how absolutely FREEZING it would be down there, too. With each and every step Gordon took down the stairs, he could feel the air get colder and colder.

Evidently, the ship underwent the same retrofit of Combine technology that Gordon was used to from his time inside City 17, as the 'vintage' design the ship sported upstairs was mostly obscured by plates of blue Combine metal. If he had to guess, he wouldn't be surprised to learn that this wasn't the first time the Borealis was hit by torpedos. The repairs were crude, welded in place of the old steel that was there before, clearly an afterthought to the array of scanning technology hanging by the ceiling. Red laser emitters jostled out from their casings and left hanging by thin wires, formerly used to help screen workers to avoid any theft.

"Okay. Red line. Follow the red line..."

Gordon took in a breath, before extending his left hand to brush against the wall as he began his trek towards the cargo hold. The further along he got, the worst shape the ship was in. Crushed girders, rubble blocking the corridors, and the distant howls of headcrab zombies waiting their next meal, all creating a fear response in Gordon's mind that screamed at him to turn back. Deal with the Combine.  
Best case scenario, he'd be able to secure himself a weapon and miraculously pull through another impossible combat scenario.  
Worst case scenario, he'd take a bullet, and he'd finally be free from _his_ control.

It's a comforting thought for all the wrong reasons, but the thought of those trapped fishermen having to choose between brutal interrogation at the hands of the Combine, or a horrifying transformation into an alien puppet was enough to force Gordon to steel himself, and continue pushing onwards.  
It's an amazing stroke of luck that leads Gordon to the hold with little resistance, but it's not something that holds out for long. The reason Gordon didn't have to deal with any headcrabs was because they were primarily localized within the cargo hold, not interspersed throughout the lower decks. Looking at the pile of bodies that had, evidently, started trying to push the submarine out from inside its hiding place within a shipping container and into the moon pool at the other end of the cargo hold, it wasn't hard to imagine why they had all centered here, either.

Gordon only had six more flares stuffed within the pockets of his overalls, and by his rough estimate he counted about thirteen zombies all shambling throughout the cargo hold. Killing seven of them didn't deal with the six that would remain, and that was assuming he could accurately hit one with each flare, too. None of the fishermen who died here seemed to have any ammunition or weapons on them, either, and... as much as it'd probably work in a scratch, he didn't want to have to rely on melee solutions without his hazard suit to stifle any potential blows from those nasty claws of theirs. _It was bad enough WITH the suit on._

"...?"

There were more of those barrels scattered throughout the hold, though... Surely, not all of them did, but at least a FEW of them had to have spare fuel stored within, right? The Combine had a bad habit of haphazardly storing highly flammable materials right next to their squads, so he'd have a hard time believing the same wouldn't also apply to their civilian-staffed ships.  
Hm.

Stuffing the flare gun within his pocket, Gordon presses himself against the wall of the hold and slowly, quietly makes his way towards the closest barrel. As long as he was careful enough to do it without making too much noise, it wouldn't be difficult to puncture the thin metal of the barrel with the sharp end of his ice pick, and just from smelling the fluid inside, he considered himself lucky that this barrel sure seemed to be packed full of gasoline, too.

Made sense. The Combine probably wouldn't care about the environmental impact using a crude fuel like that would have, and seeing as most of their vehicles would use highly advanced technology to power them, they'd definitely have a surplus of fuel.  
Satisfied with his discovery, Gordon rolls the barrel onto its side, puncturing another hole before finally kicking the barrel towards the mass of zombies.

He waits a few seconds for them to get further away from the sub before actually doing anything, of course, but by the time they're all right on top of the trail of gasoline left on the floor, it's only a matter of firing the flare onto the gas trail for the problem of the large horde to go away. Bit of a... messy solution, and admittedly, his ears are ringing now, but he hardly cares. Any stragglers are, thankfully, easily dealt with using only a FEW of his supply of remaining flares, so he's free to make use of the small cargo crane on the second floor of the cargo hold to drag the sub right inside of the moon pool.

It feels like a matter of minutes before he, along with Odell, manage to wrangle the surviving fishermen and women into the cargo hold and on board the submarine, but it takes about an hour and a half.  
"Bit o' a tight squeeze, but we can't really complain about _comfort_ in a situation like _this_ , can we? C'mon, son, let's get outta here, before the Combine wise up. Can't go straight to Kraken Base, can't risk leadin' 'em there, so we'll go to City 14. Shouldn't be too long..."

With little fanfare, the sub finally descends into the ocean depths, beginning its journey to the closest Combine-occupied city. All Gordon can do is try to get comfortable in the tightly cramped cabin, and try to get some shuteye.


	4. Point Insertion

Truthfully, Gordon can hardly recall a single detail regarding the journey from the Borealis.

At risk of making his internal monologue sound a bit... _dramatic_ , it would have been an understatement to imply that he didn't think he deserved at least a modicum of rest. As they say, _all the effort in the world would have gone to waste._ Stuffed into a submersible tin can, surrounded by frightened old men and women who were, if not mentally, physically just as tired as he was, forced to sleep against the awkward angle of the submarine wall... and yet, it was the most comfortable rest Freeman had had in all his life.

A fortunate thing, too. While the other sailors were busy speculating on what they were going to do now that the Combine officially knew the crew of the ship to be members of the Resistance, Gordon was able to utilize the few moments between consciousness and unconsciousness (gaps that were, thankfully, infrequent enough to only happen once or twice, thanks to an accidental elbow here or a knee there) gazing out of the small glass porthole on the stern of the sub, his serious expression melting somewhat as he allows his mind to shed thoughts of the alien oppression and mass cruelty and horrid atrocities and **_solely_ **focus on the (limited) aquatic life under the sea.

It's not much, admittedly. Even an escape from reality like this is corrupted by the Combine, and he's reminded of that when he pays close attention to the limited variety of marine life, or the murky, polluted state of the water, but... If he ignores the sorry state of the water itself, and if he pretends the ravenous Xenian leeches swirling about in the submarine's wake are actually fish, then... it's an escape that allows him to shut his brain off and relax, for once.  
He can hear a pair of men talking in hushed tones near the front of the submarine, but the specifics of their conversation are lost on him as he begins dozing off for the third time, only snippets registering as coherent English.

_"... could join the rebels, 'least."_   
_"... dangerous, though."_   
  
_"... what else do we have?"_   
_"... yeah."_

* * *

His third and final awakening is a bit... unfortunate.

Being at the stern of the sub, when it finally surfaces, he's rudely shoved awake, resulting in a very dazed and confused Gordon to mumble an apology under his breath, one hand going up to fix his glasses while the other wipes the trail of drool that had started from the corner of his mouth as he does his best to try to press himself against the submarine wall to let the sailors outside. Though it was difficult to make out any clear distinguishing landmarks from here, from the little he COULD see, he'd be willing to bet they had surfaced on the coast rather than one of the cities. One of the sailors complaining about a pair of leeches trying to sneak in a cheeky nibble at his ankles as he left seemed to confirm they were on land as opposed to a manmade structure, at any rate.

Odell only further confirms his suspicions. The man has the decency to wait for Gordon to get out of the sub himself before explaining their next course of action, at least, but he seems... nervous. Unsure of himself as he explains it. A bad omen that only worsens the knot in Gordon's stomach, and that's to say _nothing_ of how the environment made Gordon feel.  
He... they must be near some sort of industrial plant. Something that would pollute the nearby environment enough to make it this bad, because the coast surrounding City 17 was nowhere near THIS... lifeless. Not a speck of green could be sighted amidst all the sand and rock and dried, cracked earth. Ships once proudly riding the waves left abandoned and dead, just as the sea was now, grounded buoys left lying on their sides... Looking at the patch of water that the sub had just surfaced from, Gordon had a difficult time imagining how it was possible for that much water to exist in the first place, just looking at where he was standing now.   
Yet another question to add to the list, he supposed.

"Right... 'ssat everyone? Can't afford to be out in the open for long, so... keepin' it brief. Combine have us all tagged as anticitizens, now. Someone was talkin' to 'em, told 'em we were feedin' supplies to the rebels. 'sfar as the rest of the world is concerned, we died. Prob'ly won't be a peep about it to the general public, but..."  
Odell let out an exhale of breath, one of his hands idly reaching into one of the pockets on his overalls to slip out a worn packet of cigarettes, the other hand pulling out an old lighter along with it.  
"... best case? We get each and ev'ry one of you to the Resistance. Live out of the cities. No walls, but... better than bein' shot dead, I s'pose."

There's a moment of silence, before he clears his throat and continues speaking, now with a lit cigarette in his hand as he takes the time to stuff the packet and lighter back into his pockets.  
"... worst case, uh... Hell, too many 'worst cases' to think about. We aren't far from an old train station before they tore City 05 down to beef City 17 up, so... plan is, we split you fellas up, we put you all on separate trains, and we funnel you to someone who _can_ get you someplace safe. Bit of a walk, though, so... we'll hunker down in the sub for the night. Got plenty of leeches nearby, so we'll get you fellas something to eat."

Most of the other sailors seemed more interested in sitting outside, as Odell and a couple others worked to try to get a fire going and to prepare some food, but Gordon meandered his way back into the sub. Even if he has to sleep on the floor, he'd prefer it over sand getting everywhere. Practically the moment he lies his head in his arms, he's out like a light.


	5. Emergence

Gordon hadn't slept well.

While his opportunities to rest whilst in the depths of what little ocean stubbornly persisted in a post-invasion world were limited, they didn't have to contend with the promise of yet more strife and conflict to have to push his tired, sluggish body through. Every moment he spent out of his hazard suit felt like a very real, very physical weight that was only steadily adding to itself on his shoulders, an... ironically, suffocating sort of anxiety its only companion.  
That suit may have made him an easy target during the Black Mesa Incident, and only further emphasized the dual role he played as both messiah someone of messianic standing and as public enemy number one, but... it was the only thing that had kept him alive through all that toil. And as he followed a younger fisherman after the dull trudge through the dried up sea floor, up towards the dilapidated train depot, the realization that he was without that lifeline was rearing its ugly head more and more without the distraction of the parasitic headcrabs or domineering Combine to steal the spotlight in his mind. Gordon's body was in critical condition by the time he and Alyx had reached the Borealis, kept stable only through the aid of the suit. Evidently, for what it was worth, _he_ must have given Gordon the small kindness of healing those injuries, but   
that didn't mean the dull throbbing pain that remained had been erased. And without a steady supply of morphine and adrenaline, it's difficult for Gordon to keep his head in one piece.

Difficult, but not impossible. Though he lacked an understanding behind where he was, it was clear the Combine still held a strong hold on at least some portion of Earth, and with free will suddenly becoming something he felt was within reach... he has a hard time imagining what he would do with it in a world like this. 

"These things are mostly automated, so we should be alright to linger in one of the passenger cabs. Just gotta lie 'n' tell the registry we're from a city that hasn't been decommissioned. Why don't you take a sit in the last car, and rest your eyes a bit? It's gonna be a hell of a trip."

The man spoke without lifting his head to look at Gordon, idly lifting a hand to give a dismissive wave of the hand before both of them return to the worn keyboard hooked up to the anachronistic gray-blue Combine monitor. And while Gordon had plenty of questions that he wanted to ask, he also wasn't about to turn down an opportunity to make up for the poor excuse for a rest he had earlier, so with a short nod of the head, and a brief moment where an embarrassed Gordon realized he wouldn't see that, instead opts to turn around and find a seat in the previous car. Once _that_ was done, it wasn't long before he crossed his arms and did his best to try to coax his body back to sleep.


	6. Illumination

With his wondrous luck, he's not particularly surprised when he finds himself staring out of the window, the pitch-black interior of the train depot soon replaced with a sullen skyline of thin beams of sunlight through thick, dull, gray-green clouds as the train began its journey. It's... far more depressing a sight than he would've thought, admittedly, so he's appreciative of the opportunity to distract himself from the view when the man he had been paired with had returned from the front car, a tired look on his face as he sat himself down directly across from Gordon, taking a moment to retrieve a small silver packet from inside his jacket, tearing the top off and knocking his head back as he let the powder within trickle down his throat. And... admittedly, even without any prior knowledge of what that powder was, Gordon forced himself to look to the side, towards the door the man had just walked through instead of thinking about exactly how hungry he was. Yet another helpful aspect of his hazard suit gone, he supposed... you don't realize just how helpful regular saline injections were until you had no other way of feeding your body.

"... So, where'd you get relocated from? I don't recognize you, so you must've boarded when we left City 02. Big ship, though, and I navigated, so not much reason for me to go below deck."

Gordon gave a vague sort of nod, his gaze finally situating on the man once more. Having finished the packet of powder, he was fishing inside his jacket for something else as he spoke. "Mhm, mhm. I get it. Unless you're real tenacious about keeping records, it's hard to keep track. Met a guy who went crazy because of the _amnesiacs_ they slip in water shipments to places they suspect have any rebels hanging out. Too much of _that_ , and you end up frying your brain."

Somewhere in the back of his mind he feels a strange sense of deja vu, but he's quick to dismiss it, shaking his head as he idly sits up a little bit straighter in his seat. By this point, the other man had finished fishing out what he was looking for, a worn gasmask in his hands. Quite a bulky one, too, one that he takes a moment to wipe clean the lenses of before leaning forward to offer it to Gordon.  
"Most places, you're fine to breathe freely, but City 17's right at the heart of the Combine's occupation, so you're gonna need one of these to breathe. Pretty soon, too, the air scrubbers on this train are defunct..." he peers out of the window, a frown on his face, "... won't be long until you can't go anywhere without a couple filters on you. What's your name, anyway?"

He opts to only give his first name, this time, as he examines the gas mask in his hands. "Nice to meetcha, Gordon. I'm Samuel. We've got a long trip ahead of us, so... try to get some shuteye, alright? I'll get any CP eyes off of you when we get there."

Gordon nods, giving one last look out of the window behind Samuel before he lifts the gasmask over his head, crossing his arms and once again attempting to shift himself back into sleep.


End file.
